I'm going to change my user name again, provided the world doesn't get destroyed by early October.

Oh, you idiot, how I love you. Tomorrow I'll probably feel like pushing you down a flight of stairs and watching you tumble and roll and go crashing into the wall so hard that you punch a hole in it and fly out onto the sidewalk. Then everyone on the street can step on your belly, face, and eyeballs, mistaking them for tracts of sidewalk and bits of garbage. Oh, how you would cry for help, you pitiful little thing, but I would have no mercy on you, oh no, not until you were a fine spread of bloodberry jam beneath the public's feet; then and only then would I step forth and scoop you up with a rusty old spoon, putting your downtrodden self in an empty whipping cream bowl. In time, I suppose you would regain your form, much in the way that I manage to sit back down after standing up, and then I would put you through the same thing all over again, only this time with even greater relish.